Impeccable timing, sonny boy
You thought you got away with it and so did I, but seems to be the case that for each of your offspring to ever be the apple you’d best have a hundred eyes
That’s right… one hundred children, not one of your past conquests taking it upon themselves to make that all too heady decision to abort
And now you’re left sitting alone upon your carefree porch with a hundred such letters, dog-eared courtesy of utter distaste, each and every one of them finally requesting a little or a lot of money
“Dear, honey, I don’t know how to tell you this but we have a son… he’s twenty-one, at college, and needs to make rent.”
Hell, seems it all opted upon befalling you by the very end
Pretty certain this will send you insane
Where to place the finger of blame? Well, why not turn it right round and paint that picture all by yourself
A God awful scripture that you will no doubt wish you could burn

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